Fight Back  

It's more like his mind shattered, each piece a shard of glass cutting into him, but if you asked him, he felt like he was on fire.

Callum's heart pounded in his chest as Damian surged toward him, sword raised high. The world around him blurred, the cheers of the gathering crowd muffled like he was underwater. Damian's strikes were quick, calculated, relentless and Callum was flailing to defend himself. There was no way he could possibly keep up.

"Come on, Caelan," his opponent taunted, smirking. "Don't tell me you have forgotten how to use a sword."

Callum was no longer in the park. The air was hotter, more humid. The grass was gone, replaced with sand that pierced his skin like a thousand tiny needles. He peered at the face of the boy in front of him.

"Edric?"

Edric pushed him back with his sword, "Who else would it be? What are you spacing out for? FOCUS!"

The sword came down on him and Callum screamed, feeling the shock of the haptic vest. His vision cleared quickly enough to see Damian standing before him once more, an older, cleaner, scarier Edric.

"Focus Callum," the man repeated, grinning like he knew just what Callum was going through. "There's a crowd forming. Let's give the people a show."

"I—"

The words died on Callum's tongue before they could properly form. Damian swung three rapid strikes at him. Callum instinctively managed to block his vitals but his muscles ached from the force of each blow, the sensors in the vest sending small shocks every time a strike came too close to one of the critical red zones. 

Damian's grin widened, and for a fleeting second, Callum swore he saw triumph in his eyes, as if he wasn't just fighting to win but to break him. "I know you can do better than this," he growled.

The pain in Callum's chest exploded into something sharper, deeper, a splintering of emotions he couldn't name. 

"Fight back," Damian hissed, their swords clashing in a shower of sparks. "And fight well."

The sparks cleared away with the sound of metal sliding against metal. Callum's vision flickered. Over Damian's shoulder, he could see High King Tharion, his father, standing at the sidelines, disappointment pressed into his features.

"Will you allow the young prince of Velentis best you in combat, Caelan?" The king's voice rang out, cold and merciless: "Do not disappoint me boy, I will take no pleasure in beheading your instructors."

No. This isn't real.

Callum's breath hitched, his grip tightening on the sword. He blinked, shaking his head, and Damian was back, his golden hair tied in a neat bun, his smirk razor-sharp as he pressed his advantage. 

"You're boring me, Callum," Damian taunted, circling him like a predator. "Is this all you've got?" 

The next strike came hard and fast, and Callum barely managed to deflect it. His feet stumbled back, and his eyes darted to the crowd forming around them. Faces blurred together, indistinct and unimportant, until one stood out. 

Micah. 

He was on the sidelines, his hands clasped together, his eyes wide with concern. Callum could hear his voice faintly through the chaos: "Come on, Callum… you've got this!" 

But the words felt distant, muted, like they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. 

Micah was so sweet, he still thought this was a game when Callum was genuinely fighting for his life.

"Keep your eyes on me!" Damian roared.

Callum turned just in time to watch Edric charge at him. There were no screens in this world and this was not a game. The courtyard was alive with the clash of swords, the roar of spectators seated in a wide, circular arena. The crowd was made up of nobles, their jewels glittering in the sunlight, their laughter cold and mocking as they watched him struggle. 

Edric's dark hair was damp with sweat, his green eyes sharp and unrelenting as he lunged forward. Caelan—Callum—blocked the blow just in time, the sheer force of it rattling his arms. 

"Do you wish to disgrace your throne in front of all these people?" Edric spat, his voice venomous. "I didn't know you're so weak as to lose a tournament like this. How will you ever protect your people? How will you protect him." 

The thought of anyone hurting Ashur sent rage coursing through Caelan's body like liquid fire.

"I'll kill you!"

Edric struck again, cutting him off, forcing him to stumble back. 

"Kill me?" Damian's mocking smile replaced Edric's as he swung his sword in a wide arc. Callum blocked it, their blades locking together, their faces inches apart. "Callum, this is just a game."

Callum felt like his mind was splitting in half. He had no idea what was past and what was present, what was real or what was the product of a life long gone. All he knew was that Damian was out for blood even though the fake sword in his hands could no5 produce it. 

"Are they larping?"

"I don't know, but they're so good at this?"

"Hear that?" Damian growled through gritted teeth, his voice low enough that only Callum could hear. "It almost sounds like the crowds from those inter-kingdom tournaments. The ones you always lost."

The words sent a jolt through him, echoing in his mind like a thunderclap. "I don't recall losing," Callum managed to say.

Damian stopped at his neck and Callum dodged, stepping away to put more distance between them. "You don't remember anything," Damian chuckled humourlessly. "But don't worry, you will soon enough."

He lurched towards Callum again and, once more, Callum's vision blurred. He was back in the heat and sand, under his king's scrutinising gaze as his knees hit the burning sand.

Edric stood over him, his blade angled for a killing blow. 

"I will not have weak friends," Edric sneered. "Is this what Aeryndale's future looks like? A prince too afraid to raise his sword?" 

"No," Callum rasped, his voice raw, desperate. "I'm not—" 

"Yes you are!" 

The swords clashed again, pulling Callum back into the present. His head pounded, the edges of his vision tinged with white. 

Damian struck again, his movements fluid, confident, and Callum barely managed to parry. His arms were trembling, his grip slipping. 

"Oh oh," Damian said in a sing-song voice, his voice dripping with contempt. "Are you tired Caelan? Or do you prefer Callum?"

The crowd's cheers grew louder, their voices blending into a deafening roar. Callum couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His lungs burned, and his chest felt like it was going to collapse under the pressure. 

Damian grinned wickedly as he delivered as he lifted a foot and kicked Callum down to the ground. "I much prefer Damian," he mused. "Has a nicer ring to it."

Faintly, Callum could hear the booth attendant's panicked shout, which was fair; this was a sword fighting sim not Tekken. But Callum barely had time to worry about the sounds around him.The kick sent Callum sprawling, his back slamming into the ground with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. His sword flew from his hand, landing just out of reach. The crowd's cheers grew louder, but they sounded warped, distorted, like he was hearing them through water. 

A pained groan escaped his lips as Edric came into view, his sword raised high. 

Callum blinked. Damian loomed over him, disdain written all over his face.

"Even now, you still manage to disappoint me," Damian said as his blade came down. 

If this were a tournament or a fight to the death, Damian would have beheaded him. But the strike was a light tap against the neck of Callum's haptic vest, right on a critical zone. The blow was as humiliating as it was final.

The speakers boomed: "Vital spot hit. Player one vanquished." 

The crowd erupted into cheers, but the sound was drowned out by the ringing in Callum's ears. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His hands trembled violently and his muscles spasmed.

"Callum!" Micah's voice cut through the noise, sharp with panic. 

Callum barely registered the sound of him running over, the warmth of his hands as they gripped his shoulders. 

Micah's voice was sharp, trembling with barely contained fury. "What the hell is wrong with you, Damian?" 

Damian's expression was infuriatingly calm as he stepped back, resting the sword against his shoulder. "Come on, babe. We were just having a little fun." 

"Fun!? Look at him!" Micah fell to his knees beside Callum, his hands framing his face. "Callum, can you walk?" 

Callum couldn't answer. His chest heaved, his lungs straining for air that wouldn't come. The pain in his head was unbearable, like someone had taken a hammer to his skull, shattering every coherent thought. Still, one thing remained clear:

He was having a panic attack.

Callum didn't realize he was crying until Micah's thumb wiped gently under his cheek and he felt the wetness there. 

"Hey," Micah said softly, his voice trembling. "You're okay. I've got you." 

Callum's vision blurred as Micah slung his arm over his shoulder, struggling to lift him to his feet. Callum tried to help, tried to find his balance, but his legs felt like lead. 

"You don't get to treat people like this and call it fun," Micah spat, his voice trembling with anger as he turned to Damian. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but Micah didn't give him the chance. He turned away, half-carrying, half-dragging Callum toward the edge of the tent. 

Callum felt the world tilt again, his body slumping against Micah's smaller frame. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Micah's face, his green eyes filled with worry. 

And then there was nothing.